


Twist and Fall

by fem_castielnovak, glassclosetcastiel



Series: The Boreads [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Love Confessions, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel's True Form, Gen, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Sharing a Body, Wings, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5958462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/fem_castielnovak, https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassclosetcastiel/pseuds/glassclosetcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story post for the SPN Reverse Bang<br/>Art Title: "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5958145">But I Flew Too High</a>"<br/>Artist: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyBrennan/pseuds/GlassClosetCastiel">GlassClosetCastiel</a><br/>Story Title: <em>Twist and Fall</em><br/>Author: fem_castielnovak<br/>Pairing: Dean/Castiel</p><p>Sam and Dean have been tracking a witch for weeks. When the times comes to confront and end her, they get a surprise about her origins and her identity. To top it all off, she mistakes them for her demigod brothers and is intent on restoring them to their former selves with magic. Wings, a mountaintop ritual, and free-floating grace get involved, not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist and Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how long I can keep this streak up for but all of my fandom writing/art challenges have been golden experiences.  
> [GlassClosetCastiel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyBrennan/pseuds/GlassClosetCastiel) was the best person I could have asked to be paired with. We immediately hit it off, she is so fun to work with, and I got to meet her in person at JaxCon (which was _amazing_ ).  
> Again, the gorgeous art can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5958145). Go leave her some love in the comments!
> 
> I used some Greek and the translations are in the notes at the bottom.

 

 

“On your left, Sam!”

Dean’s warning barely gives him time to duck before a glowing pulse of heat whizzes past him. He can feel the heat of it on his arm as he turns to face the assailant.

She’s a witch they’ve been hunting for a week and a half now. She’s much smarter and _much_ more skilled than any witch they’ve come across before, which is saying something. The spells spoken in whatever ancient language she’s using roll off her tongue naturally. If Sam weren’t too busy trying to stay alive, he might recognize it as ancient Greek.

Another pulse rolls past his head, nearly singeing his hair. He turns again and this time, he catches her eye. Her motions slow down, and Sam watches as her eyes light up, filled with what appears to be recognition. It confuses Sam, but not enough to prevent him from distracting her enough to give Dean the time to stand and find a weapon.

What does distract him though, is when her eyes narrow and she says to him, in heavily accented English, “Brother?”

The awe in her voice gives Sam pause, “What?”

“Eat iron!” Dean yells, swinging a crowbar at her from behind.

Sam’s impressed when her hand flies up and she manages to reach out and grab Dean’s wrist before the weapon can touch her. Especially since she’s still hyper-focused on Sam as she does so.

In succumbing to his confusion and watching her, though, he’s left himself and Dean vulnerable. Something he realizes only when the witch reverts to speaking in the ancient language.

It clicks for him then; _Greek_.

But it’s too little too late. He watches Dean fall to the floor as he himself loses his balance and blacks out.

 

 

When Dean comes to, the first thing he notices (as usual) is that his hands are tied. He holds back a groan of frustration. The second thing he notices is that he’s shirtless. He shivers in the drafty room and looks down at his bare chest to verify this. Dean can hear movement so he knows that he hasn’t been left alone.

He squints his eyes open the barest bit. The witch is across the room fiddling with some items on a table. Probably spell materials. _Great_.

Beside him, Sam shifts. He tilts his head to gauge the situation, checking Sammy over for any visible injuries. Movement is limited but Dean can tell that his brother is also shirtless and appears to be slowly waking up.

Dean looks down at his wrists and feet. He and Sam have been tied to a support column in front of them. It looks flimsy but so had the rest of the building. He isn’t sure he wants to suggest to Sam that they attempt to break free by bringing down the beam. Just looking at the bindings makes Dean attentive to his own discomfort. He tries to stretch quietly to alleviate some of the strain that his hunched position is putting on his back but it draws the attention of the witch.

“You’re awake.”

At her voice, Dean notes Sam stirring, out of the corner of his eye. The witch is watching Dean though. She brushes off whatever was on her hands and crosses the room, eyes scanning him over. When she gets close enough, she bends down and reaches out to cup his face in her hands.

“Do you recognize me?” she asks.

“Listen sweetheart, I go through a lot of faces. So if we’ve hooked up, I’m sorry but you ain’t one that I remember,” he jibes, just for something to say.

She only reacts by squinting at him appraisingly. Dean resists the urge to squirm in discomfort as she rakes her gaze over him. In the silence, Sam grunts and tenses, finally waking up. The witch looks over at him then back to Dean.

“It’s me,” she tells them with a smile that speaks of familiarity, “Cleopatra, your sister.” It’s the only thing near an emotion she’s shown in their entire conversation. She’s been cool and reserved from the start, he isn’t even sure she was really angry when she was casting spells at them.

Her hands drop away from Dean’s face and he’s relieved at the loss of contact.

“You really don’t remember me, do you?”

Dean wants to make a joke about her accent or how she’d knocked them out but she doesn’t wait for a response.

“Then let me refresh your memory for you.” She turns and walks to a chair in the corner, dragging it across the stone floor so she can sit close enough to them to have a conversation without shouting. “I am a demigod, like you were, though now I’m a Great Sorceress as well.”

“You’re … you’re not the queen of ancient Egypt … are you?”

She scoffs, “Hardly. I was well before her time. You recall the Argonauts, don’t you?”

Before Dean can respond that no, he doesn’t ‘recall’ them but that he has heard of them before, she continues.

“Well after you all released me –“  
‘ _You all’?,_ Dean thinks.  
“– your mutton-headed shipmates insisted on sending me back to Greece. Not that there was anything to be had back in Greece, or any reliable ships to take me.”

Dean figures it can’t hurt to let her go on with her villain-monologue. It will give them more information anyways and it’s not like she’s doing anything to them besides boring them and eating up their time. At the very least, it staves off whatever ritual she was working on.

“This part I don’t expect you to know. Before we were halfway home, we were shipwrecked. All but myself were killed in the crash. I made my way to a nearby island and found the home of the witch Circe. Surely, you recall her? In any case –“  
Cleopatra clears her throat. These rhetorical questions are starting to get on Dean’s nerves.  
“In any case – she took me in and sheltered me. And after time, when I had gained her trust, she began to teach me her ways.” She looks between the two of them, “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to recognize me. I was always more mortal than the two of you. Externally, at least. I had the blood of a demigod but the lifespan and surface qualities of a mortal. No wings, no powers. Dear Circe had the heart to teach me her tricks and now … Well, now I’m just as powerful as you ever were." She pauses as if considering her words. "No," she corrects herself, "more so – I can do far more than fly, or possess supernatural swiftness, or appear ageless and have extreme longevity.”

Dean wonders how she can speak a language so fluently and still have such a heavy accent.

“It took me years to hear anything at all of your fate. And even when I did, it was only of the curse and not of what happened to you.”

“Curse?” Sam asks.

“The harpies,” she says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Sam seems interested in listening, but this mysterious ambiguity BS is pissing Dean the fuck off.

“The harpies,” Dean parrots brightly with a sarcastic smile to Sam.

“And given your curse, it was wise of you to wait until now, at the decline of the gods, before you resurfaced.”

Dean clears his throat, “And who exactly are we supposed to be?”

She frowns, “You are my brothers, Zetes,” she looks to Sam, “and Calais,” she nods at Dean. At their blank expressions she frowns further, “The Boreads – twin sons of the North Wind, Boreas. Crew members of the Argonaut.”

Dean glances at Sam. There’s calculation then realization in his expression and he turns to his older brother.

Dean laughs tiredly and looks up at Cleopatra, “I’m sorry I’ve gotta be the one to tell you but you’ve made a big mistake. We’re _human_.”

“At the moment. But only because you’ve been reincarnated this way. It’s obvious that both of you are still my brothers.”

“What makes you say that?” Sam asks.

“You are meant to bear magnificent wings,” she tells them, “I can see it written on your souls.”

“Magnifi-? Lady, you’re a little bit late on that one.” Dean hangs his head forward, “ _God_ , when are creatures with wings gonna stop wanting to ride our asses?”

Again, she pays them no mind, “Your wings used to be so beautiful. Truly, I would have assumed you would be able to keep them when you reincarnated.”

“Like I said; human. No wings,” Dean shrugs his shoulders as best he can for emphasis.

“Of course,” she says, sly smile sliding over her features. Dean likes this smile much less than her last display of emotion. “I considered the situation while you were unconscious.”

Dean doesn’t want to know what the ‘and’ is.

“ _And_ ,” she gets up from her chair and crosses the room, “I’m going to give you your wings back.”

“We never had wings in the first place,” Dean gripes, “You can’t give us back something we never had.”

She ignores his remark and fusses with the materials on the table. There’s some clinking and rattling, the sound of a pestle grating against the bottom of a mortar.

He can hear when she starts mumbling what must be the opening of the spell. He begins to panic, “Hey, seriously,” he wets his lips nervously, “neither of us have ever had our own wings. Casting a spell to give them back won’t do anything.”

He glances nervously at Sam.

Cleopatra’s chanting gets louder and more forceful. The hair on the back of Dean’s neck starts tingling.

“Dean, now might be a really good time to call Cas,” Sam tells him.

“Shit. _Fuck_.” Dean squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, _‘Cas get down here right fucking now. We’ve got a witch trying to make us grow wings.’_

When he opens his eyes again, Cleopatra is already halfway back across the room. In her hand is the mortar that Dean must have heard her using. She kneels behind Dean first and he hears the slick sound of what must be her fingers dipping into the mixture in the bowl. She begins mumbling unintelligibly, and she draws a symbol on his back with whatever oily substance is on her fingers. She seems to repeat the process for Sam.

 _‘Come on, Cas,’_ Dean prays, _‘If you don’t show up in the next -‘_

His train of thought is cut off by the witch’s loud spellwork.

The nerves along his spine light up with activity. He and Sam gasp as the tingling turns to burning but there’s almost no time to react when the burning becomes sharp piercing across their shoulder-blades. It extends to a prickling ache in their shoulders and upper ribcages, sensation mounting with the timbre of Cleopatra’s chants. She repeats something – a phrase, yelling it three times and then there’s a cracking sound. Dean can’t even make himself look over at Sam before he passes out.

When he wakes again, they’re still bound, hands and feet, to the support. Sam’s awake and groaning through gritted teeth. Dean tries to turn himself to see all of Sam and make sure his little brother’s okay but there’s something wet and heavy weighing on his back and it’s painful to try and turn. He grunts and shoves his shoulders back. There’s a dragging sound and … he can _feel_ it. The scraping of the ground against -

Wings.  
He catches sight of feathers on the floor. They’re black and gleam green when they shift. When they twitch and scrape again, he can feel it. Meaning that they’re likely his wings. Fuck.

He peers towards Sam but only manages to get a glimpse of dark colored, downy fluff along his brother’s upper back before it hurts to turn any further.

“The Hell?” he mumbles, wincing when he manages to accidentally pinch a wing-bone against the stone floor.

“I don’t remember you losing consciousness so easily before.”

Dean looks up at Cleopatra, who’s standing over him.

“Perhaps being separated from your wings for so long has made you more vulnerable. Or it may simply be that your regenerated forms are weaker.”

“Like I keep _saying_ ,” he grits out, “we’re human. That’s all we’ve ever been!”  
_For the most part_ , he adds mentally.

The witch hums thoughtfully, “I’d hoped that with the restoration of your wings, your memories would surface more freely. We shall have to do something about that.”

Dean’s heartbeat spikes. When someone with magic at their fingertips says something like that, it can’t mean anything good.

The fluttering he hears at that moment gains yet another reason for being one of his favorite sounds. Cleopatra’s head whips towards the source and Dean cranes his neck over his shoulder, just barely able to catch a glimpse of black pants and a tan coat.

“Dean?”

The hunter thinks that the angel sounds surprised and concerned.

“Who are you?” Cleopatra practically spits out.

All Dean sees is her defensive stance and nervous expression.

Castiel eyes her but asks, “Dean, what’s going on?”

"Cas-!" he starts.

"Silence!" Cleopatra interrupts him. Her gaze flicks discerningly between the hunter and the angel and Dean watches as her eyes widen in shock.

"Cas, we-" Dean tries again but he's once more cut off by the witch. 

“I know not how you have claim over my brother,” she hisses at the angel, “but I will not allow it.”

She holds her arm out towards Cas, palm spread and begins yelling more Greek. The only words Dean catches are _“alastor”_ and _“diachorízo”_ , before there’s a blinding flash of light. He has the sense to squeeze his eyes shut and hopes Sam does as well if he’s not still unconscious.

He opens them to find Cas’s body collapsed on the floor beneath a hovering ball of light. Cleopatra stands recoiled and petrified, gaze darting about as it tracks what is likely Castiel’s grace. It flits in wild, panicked motions in the area above Castiel’s body, and the low powerful hum it emanates is more than enough to put anyone on edge.  

Dean doesn’t know how to react with anything other than a sense of panic and hyper attention to his surroundings.

Cleopatra looks totally disoriented. She’s wringing her hands and watching the ball of light nervously. In a sudden flurry of motion she’s spun around and scrambling to scoop up items from the table she had been using. They get stacked on top of each other and sit precariously in her grasp as she uses one hand to reach into one of the bowls and take out a handful of its contents. Murmuring to herself, either a spell or nonsense, Cleopatra draws a circle on the ground with the stuff in her hand. She reaches into another bowl and throws the powder from it into the center of the circle.

Dean spares a glance at the ball of light – at _Cas_. It- _He_ is still spasming and flaring wildly. This isn’t good. A look to his right does him no comfort either; Dean doesn’t know how long Sam’s been awake but at the moment there’s alarm in his brother’s features.

Cleopatra extends her free hand towards the circle and casts another spell. The mess on the floor begins swirling slowly together, rising off the ground to form a vertical disk before rapidly contracting together then expanding into a ring at the center of which there is a blue vortex.

Without a glance to her prisoners, Cleopatra deftly scoops up another handful of items and steps into the vortex. Moments later she reappears, empty handed, walking purposefully towards the brothers. She drops a hand to each of their heads and murmurs a spell. Dean thinks that she really is a very powerful sorceress if she’s casting spells so freely. And that’s all he has time to think before he becomes dazed and loose-limbed.

He’s barely aware of his actions as his body moves and he recognizes the deep blue of the vortex before his stomach drops. Then in sharp contrast to the grey drab of the room he’d just been in, the vortex-blue dissipates into sharp green and fair, sky blue. The word “portal” bounces around in his mind but it has no real meaning to him until several minutes later. He shakes his head and comes back to himself, clenching his hands in a test of volition.

Apparently while he’s been out of it, Cleopatra has been speaking: “…I recognized him as an _avenging spirit_ , though I haven’t seen any of them roaming the earth in hundreds of years.”

Dean spares a glance to Sam and mouths, _“Avenging spirit?”  
“Angels?”_ Sam suggests in response, with equal confusion.

“What I don’t understand is how his essence came to be within you,” she mumbles.

“His essence?”

“Dean,” Sam whispers, “I think she means his grace.”

“It marks a claim on you, which I can’t imagine to be something you willingly allowed him to do.” She glances over her shoulder, “Is it a mark of protection? Or do you owe him your life?”

“Tell us what you did to him and I’ll answer your questions.”

She stands straighter and puts on a thoughtful expression, “Is he mated to you?”

Dean’s brow tightens and he flushes, “Wha-? No! Just-“ he tugs at his restraints, “Just tell us what you did to him!”

She turns back to the ingredients, “I separated his spirit from his flesh. But since it wasn’t a human spirit, I assume he was some sort of deity. Of which culture I know not. I never was one for studying other religions, certainly nothing east of Cyprus. That is where his religion originates, yes? All the other _avenging spirits_ I’ve come across claimed somewhere around there as their holy land.”

Dean misses her former stoic attitude but Sam takes it upon himself to direct her chatter towards something useful; “So I take it we’re currently west of Cyprus?” The question is weak but it works.

She scoffs, “Of course. What mountain would I go to besides Olympus?”

For the first time, Sam takes a good look around. They’re situated on a small plateau near what looks to be like one of the highest peaks. In the parts of the sky that aren’t pale turquoise, it’s foggy and there’s a thick layer of clouds below them.The air isn’t as thin as he might have expected. He takes another look at the sorceress and he concludes that Cleopatra isn’t working off of a table, but an altar. _Fantastic._

 

Dean glances at his brother. Sam wiggles his toes and rolls his shoulders, which only causes him to wince. The feeling in their limbs seems to have come back to both of them. Neither of them are bound any longer. Soundlessly, the two of them make to stand but with the added weight of the wings, their balances are thrown off.

“There’s a barrier around the both of you,” Cleopatra calls over her shoulder, “Feel free to test them if you’d like.”

On unsteady legs they wobble towards each other but can’t get closer than a foot and a half away before an electric stinging burns beneath their skin. They both recoil and rub where the invisible barrier bit at their flesh. Instinctively, they search the ground for sigils or markings but there’s no indication of anything that could be the source of the force field. Which probably means that Cleopatra herself is maintaining it.  
It really can’t get much worse than this.

She pivots to face them.

“Strip.”

“Oh, come on!”

“You must bare yourselves, to accept divinity.” She holds out a bowl full of shiny, dark yellow solution, “It will separate you from the vestiges of humanity.”

Sam cringes, “Can’t we just –“

“Kneel, or I start pulling feathers.”

“So you’re just gonna go right for-“

She reaches out and yanks on a handful of Sam’s wing. None come loose but it hurts like a motherfucker.

_“Aah!”_

“Alright! Alright!” Dean starts to undress. Sam follows suit, and when they’re both undressed, Cleopatra raises the bowl above her head. She shouts a brief incantation then douses both of them with half the bowl’s sticky, musky contents.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Dean smears it across his face with the back of his arm in an attempt to keep it out of his eyes.

“The hell was that?” Sam sputters.

Cleopatra returns the bowl to its place on her altar and begins fussing with more ingredients.

“You just gonna keep ignoring us whenever it suits you?”

“Nothing you say matters much to me until I’ve returned you to your senses.”

“I’ll take that as a solid maybe.”

Without any direct interaction, Dean starts to worry. He mentally fumbles for any means of escape but is left with nothing save temporary compliance to their captor’s whims, and the tentative hope of Cas being able to come to their aid.

Cleopatra starts combining more substances. Even from here, it smells unpleasant.

 _Cas I don’t know if you can hear me_ , he prays, _but if you can do anything, we’re on Mount Olympus._

With a word, Cleopatra lights the candles.

 _God, I hope you’re okay_ , he adds.

Cleopatra picks up three bowls with powdered contents and goes about making a small pile of each. She walks in a tight circle around the brothers (wings and all) so that the piles of the three substances form a triangle. She dusts off her fingers over the bowl as she makes her way back to the altar but when she sets the bowl down, she wipes her hands on her skirt.

She picks up a piece of paper.  
The first time she reads the spell aloud it’s as if she were sounding it out. Dean watches Sam, the both of them listening intently to her phrasing.

Even after she’s finished, Sam stares at the ground, lips moving soundlessly as he works out their meaning. His eyes widen and Dean gets nervous.

“Sam, I heard ‘ _kaléo_ ‘ and ‘ _enóo_.’ What’s she doing?”

“So she’s trying to restore our memories, right?”  
Dean nods; he’d gotten that much.  
“Well, the way she said it was … off. She probably thinks it’s going to make us remember who she thinks we are. But with that phrasing …” his face scrunches up like he isn’t sure of himself, “it might actually summon the demigods themselves.”

“Shit.”

“You better-“

“Yeah, I already prayed again.”

 

Cleopatra recaptures their attention when she clears her throat lowly, in preparation for her reading. She gives a glance to the brothers, and then turns to face the landscape beyond her altar.

“ _Akouse me tora!_ ” She cries out, and this time there is intent behind the phrase.  
She begins to invoke the spell with practiced confidence. A hot breeze picks up and sweeps away the words that conjure it, as well as the thickest clouds. The air crackles with power. She gestures with her hands and draws symbols on her forearms in the residue of the yellow liquid she’d covered them in. The wind gains temperature and momentum with the gusto of her words.

The excitement is evident on her features as she spews the final lines of her incantation. It ends on a single cry repeated: _“Anchimoléo! Anchimoléo! Anchimoléo!”_

Dean and Sam tense up and search the sky for something that would signal imminent doom but the only movement is the continuous, natural shift of the wind.  
They keep the silence until it becomes too long to ignore.

“Well I guess this is the part where we go home. Good effort everyone. I gotta say, Cleo, ya really had us going there for a minute.”

“This is _old_ magic,” she hisses, “It’s powerful; it takes time to work.”

Dean sucks a skeptical breath through his teeth, “I dunno … All the really good witches we know have spells that work instantly.”

“We were bound to come across some non-instantaneous magic at some point,” Sam remarks. Dean shrugs, still looking unconvinced.

His stomach drops, though, when a brilliant glimmer appears on the horizon. It catches Sam and Cleopatra’s attentions as well. It looks to be moving towards them rapidly.

Dean spares a glance to the witch and for a moment she looks elated, but then her expression wilts into something almost fearful. Another survey of the encroaching light source and he recognizes it as what had been Cas when they’d left the witch’s shack. Dean blinks twice and the ball of light is floating motionless, into their midst.

The ball of light flares and the sky flushes suddenly, as if the interruption has totally disrupted everything. Dean certainly hopes that it has.

“You should have gone to your afterlife,” Cleopatra tells him. Like they’re playing a game and he’s broken the rules. She looks less affronted and more reserved. Calm, but there’s a telling edge to her voice and she’s backing towards her altar.

Dean stands, quavering for a moment, still not used to his extra appendages. “ _Cas_ ,” he calls out lowly, extending the vowel. His warning has no visible effect on Cas’s form.  He walks to where he suspects the edges of the invisible border are.

“There would be no reason for further conflict if you’d just _gone to your afterlife_ ,” she chastens.

“Angels don’t have afterlives,” Dean snaps at her.

“Pity, then, that he should be destroyed. Nothing to look forward to.” She shrugs but the gesture disguises her picking up a bottle of purple liquid.

Sam catches the movement, “She’s got a potion!”

Irate, Cleopatra bares her teeth and brings the bottle into view to try and uncork it. She must pull too hard, because the cap goes flying and about half of the vial’s contents spill out. She cries out in frustration at the loss and jumps back to keep any of the liquid from falling onto her person.

Cas’s grace darts forward, and it must have some physical force on this plane because Cleopatra trips and lands hard on her forearms when the grace hits her. The vial slips from her hand and loses more of its contents.

Dean tries to take another step forward but feels the same electric pulse shock him.

Cleopatra gives a strangled cry – one hand stretching towards the bottle, the other waving violently in front of herself as if she can fend off the trueform angel.

Maybe she can.

Dean knows that angels are powerful, but he also knows that there’s a reason they need vessels. Something about their trueforms doesn’t connect right with this plane, so they aren’t at full capacity when they’re in their trueforms on this stratum of existence. And if this witch is capable of separating Cas from his body, then she’s likely capable of doing him serious damage if she can’t kill him. Dean isn’t willing to gamble on it.

He moves intently into the barrier.  
Cleopatra has started chanting again, and Dean can’t tell if he’s imagining the waver in the outline of Cas’s grace. He gives another shove at the invisible boundary. As before, the electricity is a painful buzzing through his limbs that settles in the back of his skull, but Dean decides it’s more unpleasant than anything. He pushes himself forward a pace, arms outstretched, and as expected, the electrical current increases.

Cas’s grace is circling the sorceress, and she fearfully keeps eyes on him as he moves about. Her chanting has risen in pitch making her words sound strained, and somehow less potent.

Dean can barely hear them though, there’s a low humming in his ears dulling everything. He staggers forward again. Distantly, he thinks he hears Sam calling his name, but it’s difficult to tell as the humming in his ears escalates to roaring.

Another two steps and he feels himself cry out. Something trickles down the sides of his face. Sweat or tears maybe. He hopes it isn’t blood. Cas’s grace wobbles jerkily in midair and it doesn’t look intentional. Cleopatra’s mouth opens wide and her words look like they’re dragging out – like she’s screaming them.

The forcefield is searing him, but Dean doesn’t know what to do except keep trying to drag himself beyond the barrier. His vision blurs and narrows into points, and he’s pretty sure it isn’t just that factor that’s making Cas’s light look dimmer.

Suddenly Dean’s concerned about staying conscious. How much longer can he hold on before he passes out? Will he continue to be electrocuted after he’s unconscious? Will it kill him?

Castiel’s grace spasms violently and Cleopatra is attempting to stand as the grace backs off and gives her a wider berth in its circling.

Dean sucks in air through his teeth as he wells his strength. One last, hard shove and he launches himself at Cleopatra. He feels the forcefield’s hold break because the constriction on his chest releases and he sucks in a gasping breath, even as he careens into the sorceress.

There’s a rushing in his ears like a wave overtaking him. _Oh, that’s blood coming back to my head,_ is all he has time to think before the witch is pushing him off of her and going for his throat.

“ _Shit_ ,” he chokes out as he fights her hands on his jugular.

The fair-red has begun to melt out of the clouds, leaving them lined in pink. It makes a pretty and strange backdrop for the tussle. At least what little of it Dean can see past Cleopatra’s head.

He tumbles to the side and takes her with him. The strange pain in his back which he couldn’t identify is relieved once his wings are no longer pinned beneath him. She wiggles and tightens her grip even as he looms over her. His wings beat wildly without his intent. Dust flies up around them, causing them both to cough and squint. Dean tries to control himself as he strains to pull her wrists away from him. She screams and yanks her arms down, bringing Dean to the ground once more. It bends one of his wings terribly and the other continues to flap wildly. He accidentally hits her in the face with it and they both look shocked, but Dean takes the momentary break to gain his bearings and attempts to repeat the action. He manages to land another blow and that sends Cleopatra back into action. Her face clouds and she rolls them both twice. Dean realize she’s sending them towards her altar and immediately twists and flips them in the opposite direction. Panic paints her features so Dean smirks and does it again, even as her nails dig into his forearms and his wings bend awkwardly. But when they come up – halted after a third roll in the direction Dean had been going – Cleopatra is smiling viciously from beneath him. His wings stretch as he once more tries to stand but instead of pulling him down as she’s been doing, the sorceress draws up her legs and strikes out, pushing Dean away from her with a kick to the stomach.

He reels backwards until there’s nothing under his feet.

It was half a step, _maybe_ , but it was enough to propel himself well off the side of the mountaintop. His wings flare – he can feel the wind catching at them but he can’t get a purchase. There’s no mode of affect.

He watches the mountaintop slip away from him, just the fair green sky and grassy ledge receding slowly. The most disconcerting visual is the unchanging expanse of the purple-grey clouds trimmed in pink.

Hitting Cleopatra with his wings was just a fluke. He can’t actually _fly.  
_ The air rushing through his feathers taunts him; a means of escape which he can’t take hold of. Panicked, grunted breaths are sucked away and it’s as if he were drowning midair. The fleeting, wet press of clouds as he plummets through them only underpins the concept.

Helplessness fights to overtake him. His wings fold in on themselves. He’s falling at an angle and he can’t see where he’s going. _This_ , the lack of control, is why he fears flying in general. There’s nothing solid to his actions.

Wind speeds up and collects around him. Bones and flesh twist, leaving him bent and swathed in dark plumage. He’s almost vertical and he claws upwards, arching his back and stretching towards crags and ledges that aren’t there for him to grab onto.

The distant sunset in his eyes makes him feel like Icarus.

 

And then there’s more to the brightness. It’s white, and then it’s the white-blue of grace catching up to him.

“Cas!” Dean calls out. He sounds panicked and breathless which only serves to scare himself more.

The grace spirals, encircling him and whatever it’s doing doesn’t feel like enough. Dean scrambles for something – anything. The thought overtakes him abruptly, and for one surreal moment he considers the trust it takes him to do what he’s doing.

 _“Cas!”_ He yells over the wind, “Possess me!”

The light around him flares and he squints as it overwhelms his vision. His mouth falls open in a silent scream and then it’s pouring through him, filling him up with cold heat.

He blinks and he’s sightless.  
But his eyes open and there’s _sensation_ and _intrusion_.

Thoughts that aren’t his own hit him simultaneously:  
_Use your wings;_  
_Give me access;_  
_I can’t fight you right now;_  
_Use them or let me;_  
_We can do this;_  
_Together_

And Dean struggles. Sense of safety argues with logic – the Other, the thing that wants him to give in, can save him but he is certain that he has to save himself. It isn’t his nature to trust this Foreignness. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, he feels like he’s about to hit something with every passing second.

His mind unblurs and he forces himself to rationalize: the Other is Cas. And in the same nanosecond, he relinquishes control.

The cold warmth washes over his mind. He feels so much. He’s more than himself. The grace courses within him, guiding his mind, running up through and along the bones of his wings. There’s a tensing and contraction – a rapid pump and rush. Then another, and another. The movement is smooth and saving. His descent is slowed with every wingbeat. There’s relief, in double-time; his own and Castiel’s. The echo of sentiment is a comfort and Dean digs at it.

First there’s _concern_ , and a mixture of _gratefulness_ with _rage_ \- something about Dean’s non-strategic recklessness. There’s the _relief_ he’d shared a moment before.  
As Dean prods more, there’s an _uneasiness_ creeping at the edges of the knot of emotion which Dean is digging at. Still it feels safe to be letting these thoughts and feelings wash over him. He’s distantly aware of his continued attempts at flight but mostly he’s burrowed in this shared consciousness.  
There’s _upset_ at being divided from his vessel, and _edginess_ at adjusting to sharing Dean’s body. It almost borders on _vulnerability._ An air of _determination_ is directed towards what Dean thinks must be the goal of saving him. A small pocket of … _sorrow_ aches for something that isn’t there. Then a larger pocket for many things that aren't there.  
And beneath it all, the overarching _eros-philia_ he’s so familiar with. He recognizes this - it’s what he feels for Castiel. It’s attached to him, and for a moment he fears he’s been revealed - that he can see this emotion objectively because it’s what he’s broadcasting to Cas within his own head. He runs over it again and finds that the objectivity is only tied to how he is externally percieved - not a first person experience but an incredibly intimate second person point of view. Dean's panic is quickly becoming something else. He tugs at strands of it, whittling the idea down to its basest form and until he can grasp at the most compressed form of something incredibly complex, and finding what amounts to _love_.

 _Love_.  
And it’s not his own.

His wings fail for a moment, but there’s the prodding to _beat them, Dean._ Startled back to himself, he flares them, or perhaps he allows Castiel to flare them. They catch the air current and he gives them one hard thrust, then a handful more in quick succession. He strains to get a grip on what his discovery means, and to right himself in the air - it’s still an awkward flux between actual flight and graceful, slow falling.

He looks below, sees a ledge not too far off.  
_Cas, you think you can get us there?_ he asks the not-him part of his mind. There’s no response but he loosens his hold on the reins and feels Cas take up the slack. Dean freezes up on the landing - despite what he tried to convince himself of, it is nothing at all like landing from a very high jump. His legs wobble then buckle beneath him. His forearms hit the ground too and he finds his palms in a death-grip on the solid debris of the ledge. He pants heavily and looks upwards which does absolutely nothing to calm him. Dean has no idea how he didn’t die hitting something on the way down in the stretching moments it took before Cas got to him. He shivers as a fresh breeze hits his bare skin and wishes bitterly that the witch had left him at least one piece of clothing. With the aid of the mountainside in front of him, Dean stands shakily, then, because he enjoys making himself feel sick and tempting fate, he peers past where the rocks cut off. They stand much, much lower than the nine thousand-odd feet they’d been at before (after years of researching mythology there are some things you just know). Dean swallows hard and looks up again. It’s easier this time but he’s concerned about how he’s going to get all the way back up to the top of the mountain. And if he’ll be able to do it without puking.

The way Cas’s grace rolls inside him feels upset, with him or their situation, Dean can’t tell so he brushes it aside. “Not now, Cas.” He shakes out his wings and extends them, “We’ve gotta get back to Sammy.”

He adjusts his footing and faces outward, “Have at it,” he says, giving over to Cas once more. And as Castiel rears his wings, Dean resolutely does _not_ think of anything that encroaches on what the angel might feel for him.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Part II coming next month!
> 
> Once again, the stunning art can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5958145). Go leave some love in the comments!
> 
> Exits are to your left, your right, and your rear, restrooms are to the front, Kudos and comments are found below, and as always, very appreciated. Thank you for flying Air fem-castielnovak.
> 
>  
> 
> Translations:  
> Alastor ; ἀλάστωρ - avenging spirit  
> Diachorízo ; διαχωρίζω - separate (verb)  
> Mními ; μνήμη - memory, rememberance  
> Enóo ; ἑνόω - unite, make one  
> Kaléo ; καλέω - call, summon  
> Anchimoléo ; ἀγχιμολέω - come nigh
> 
> I used [this](http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/definitionlookup?type=begin&q=angel&target=greek) dictionary primarily.


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